


Could It Be Magic?

by PlaneJane



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-12
Updated: 2011-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaneJane/pseuds/PlaneJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s early 1994, and age of consent for gay men is lowered from twenty-one to eighteen, which frees nineteen-year-old Merlin to pursue the Lesbian and Gay Society (LGSoc) golden boy, Arthur Pendragon.  From the very beginning the attraction is mutual, but what they both discover as they fall head over heels, is that an even bigger freedom comes from knowing you’re truly loved, for everything you are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could It Be Magic?

_Monday, February 20, 1994_

The streamline of Arthur’s outstretched muscled form glides through cool water. His fingertips reach and clasp the lip on the wall; he draws up his knees, twists and uses his feet to push off, arms slicing like blades. Twenty more lengths of freestyle, a rest and another twenty of backstroke - every Monday it’s the same.

Arthur Pendragon is a creature of habit, raised on a steady diet of discipline and routine.

He isn’t the only one.

While he doesn’t generally stand around at the end of the pool between lengths, he can’t help but notice the regulars, who swim in tandem in his lane or one of the three to his side. Arthur recognises most of the lane swimmers. The non-regulars tend to be the people in the main pool who do three slow lengths of breast stroke then spend the rest of the time chatting with their friends. He marvels at how it’s possible for some of those girls to swim for an hour and not get their hair wet. Some days he splashes by them on purpose, just for the hell of it, and yells out, “Sorry! I forgot my contacts - can’t see where I’m going,” while they yelp in annoyance and try to shrug off the offending water.

Sometimes Arthur gets chatted up, usually by some unsuspecting female. Arthur, however, has his eyes strictly on the males, and recently just one in particular: the skinny guy with the Brett Anderson haircut.

Arthur stops for a breath, checks the clock and flips over to his back. Any minute now, he’ll be here. If he tilts his head to the side he can see the entrance to the men’s changing rooms and he’ll get a glimpse before the guy he’s nicknamed ‘Brett’ gets in the pool.

For the whole of the first term, Arthur observed him with increasing interest.

Brett usually arrives as Arthur’s on his last ten lengths, just after three o’clock. He’s about the same height as Arthur, but he looks a good two or three stone lighter. Far from being nimble, though, his gait is too careful, awkward and almost self-conscious.

After he lowers himself into the pool and pushes off, dark goggles over his eyes, he swims like a man possessed. It amuses Arthur no end; his technique gives new meaning to the name freestyle, although it seems to work. He’s lithe, not overly toned or sinewy, just very slender - not Arthur’s usual type - which makes him all the more intriguing.

Only once has Brett arrived and left before Arthur. As he got out of the pool on that particular day last term, he looked up and smiled at the lifeguard, a blonde girl, and Arthur had to rub water out of his eyes that wasn’t actually there. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. Brett was beautiful ... and probably straight.

Arthur cut his swim short and on his way out was able to spot him sitting at one of the car-racing machines in the lobby of the pool building, oblivious he was being given the eye, totally absorbed by the video game. His hair was drying in curls which he’d tucked back over his ears that didn’t stick out so starkly without wet hair plastered to his head, and he was wearing a dark green jacket zipped up to his neck. Arthur watched his hands slide over the steering wheel, loose and practised, and wondered how he’d react to getting asked out by another man.

With only two more lengths to go, Arthur’s beginning to wonder if Brett isn’t coming today when he spots him in the water already, wading towards the lanes. Arthur speeds up, hoping to coincide the moment they both reach the end of the pool.

He’s in luck. A dip under the rope and Brett leans against the edge, pushing his hair off his face just as Arthur touches the wall. Arthur tries to be casual, breathing deep, flexing his arms and hoping he’ll catch his eye. He doesn’t expect a hand to reach over the rope and tap him on the arm.

“You’re Arthur Pendragon, right?”

“Yes. Do I know you?”

“No, but I’ve seen you get up and speak in the Union and you’re Treasurer of the Lesbian and Gay Society, aren’t you?”

Arthur dips a slight nod.

“I just wanted to say thanks, for all the campaigning. If the vote in Parliament goes through tomorrow it’s going to be life-changing for blokes like me.”

“You’re gay?”

“Yes. And I’m nineteen.”

“We’re not out of the woods yet. It might not get passed.”

“You think?”

“I hope not. We’ll see.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed. I’ve got a good feeling though,” he smiles, directly at Arthur this time.

Arthur isn’t usually caught unaware like this, jaw hanging, heart pounding. Brett snaps on his goggles and is three strokes away before Arthur realises he didn’t ask him his name.

Still, that doesn’t stop Arthur from beaming from ear to ear - because Brett, or whatever his real name is, is gay, and better yet, he’s out and proud.

 

 _Tuesday, February 21, 1994_

Tuesdays are usually quiet in the Student Union bar.

Arthur arrives at eight to find the LGSoc have requisitioned three tables near the television. They need them; the bar’s filling up quickly. If they weren’t before they came in, everyone in the bar is certainly aware by now that at this very moment equal rights for gay men are hanging in the balance. The music’s off tonight and the television is turned up loud while everyone waits for news.

There’s a buzzing anticipation, growing louder as discussions get more heated, fuelled by too much beer and passionate indignation.

The bar’s heaving by nine.

Arthur sits apart with his friends; Leon, Gwaine and Lance. They talk about the squash league, all the Fresher girls Gwaine has slept with from L-block and how internet is going to change the world. Arthur tries not to think about his father, who’ll no doubt be lamenting the demise of decent society if Arthur and _his lot_ get their way.

When the verdict reaches the gates outside the Commons, at about ten o’clock, the bar erupts with a mixture of cheers and jeers. There’s a vociferous mix of joy and anger.

“Arthur, say something.” Danielle, the LGSoc President, is leaning over his shoulder, ready to drag him up to speak.

As the best public speaker on the LGSoc Committee, a gay man and onetime activist, it’s expected that he’d be the one asked, though none of them on the committee discussed it. It’s a good thing he had something half rehearsed as he’s jostled onto a tabletop that might not take his weight. The area around him takes on a rumbling hush.

“Just over three years ago, I turned eighteen. I was old enough to vote, to die for my country, to watch films that contained sex and violence. If I’d had the funds, I could have got a mortgage and if I’d been inclined I could have got married to a woman that I’d been legally able to have sex with since I was sixteen.

“The trouble was, I didn’t want to have sex with women ... and it’s not like I didn’t give it a try.” Arthur takes a pause for the whistles and laughter. “I wanted to have sex with men. Only the law said it wasn’t legal to do that until I was twenty-one.

“I know some of you are angry - angry that the age of consent wasn’t lowered to sixteen tonight. But eighteen _is_ a start. This battle, for equal rights, was started long before any of us were born, and it won’t stop now. _We_ aren’t going to stop, not until the age of consent is the same for everyone, gay or straight, man or woman, until gay people have the same rights and access to marriage, to benefits and social recognition.

“Don’t lose heart. We can make our voices loud. We _will_ make our voices heard.”

There’s a surge of shouts and cheers as glasses are banged on tables. The noise assails Arthur until he feels it pressing in, suffocating him. He clambers down, amidst claps and slaps on his back and instantly feels deflated, not riding high, not in the least victorious. He searches out Leon and instead sees committee faces beckoning him over.

The bulk of LGSoc Committee are huddled around a table, trying to hear each other. Arthur nudges in next to Danielle.

Her face is pressed to Arthur’s ear as she says above the din, “I was just saying we’ll have an emergency meeting tomorrow afternoon and get these letters sent out.”

“I’ve got a squash match. Just leave me what you want me to do in the office and I’ll pick it up when I’m done.”

“All right, love.” She snakes her arm around him. “You okay?”

“Yes. Just tired. Final year woes.”

“Same for all of us. No need to hang about here. Go find some nice young man to celebrate with.” She kisses him on the cheek and shoves him off her chair.

Arthur looks around. The lads are up at the bar, talking to a bunch of women. If he had the motivation he could probably pull. But he doesn’t. He’s angling for the exit, all set to go home, when he sees out of the corner of his eye waving arms and just makes out a man’s voice calling, “Arthur!”

Arthur turns, and when he realises who it is, bobbing through the crowd towards him, his spirit lifts.

Moments later they meet in the middle. “Hi. I’m Merlin. I spoke to you at the pool yesterday.”

“I remember.”

“I just wanted to say well done. I know you’re disappointed it wasn’t sixteen, but it’s still a victory. You should feel really proud of yourself.”

“It wasn’t me, you know.”

“Yes, but I heard you went and spoke at the Stonewall Conference last year. You’ve done a lot.”

“Thanks. I’ve never seen you at the LG Centre. Ever thought about getting involved?”

“Me? No one would take any notice of someone like me.”

“There are plenty of behind the scenes things you can do.”

Merlin nods and looks away. Arthur sees that look often enough when he’s trying to drum up support for this and that. He doesn’t push it – getting involved isn’t for everyone.

Merlin bites his lower lip and chances a glance back at Arthur. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure. Why don’t we go to the non-smoking side? It’s always quiet there.”

“I’ll just go and tell my friends. Meet you round there?”

No longer feeling wrung out and exhausted, Arthur watches Merlin pick his way back to a couple of young women. Both are pretty: one dark, one blonde, both talking and laughing with Merlin. The dark one is wearing a hideous skirt; the blonde might be the lifeguard he saw at the pool. They look over in Arthur’s direction, smile and wave as he starts to walk towards the door at the side of the bar.

Merlin wastes no time excusing himself and Arthur decides to wait for him, enjoying the sight of his eyes lit up, smiling bright, eagerly crossing the room to buy Arthur a drink. It might only be a bit of hero worship but it doesn’t stop Arthur getting the flutter of butterflies.

Arthur smiles and raises his hand, making it clear he’s waiting, and despite the floor being pretty crowded, Merlin’s eyes don’t leave his as he approaches. It’s therefore not all that surprising that when he’s only feet away Merlin trips, possibly over a bag. Lucky for him, Arthur’s arms are out as fast as lightning, stepping forward and catching him by the elbows, keeping him on his feet. He weighs almost nothing.

Arthur rights him and reluctantly gives up his hold. “There’s no need to throw yourself at me.”

“This is why I stay thin.”

“You do that kind of thing often?”

“More than I’d like to admit.”

“You know, you’re a good-looking guy, there’s no need to act desperate.”

Merlin smiles at the floor; he might be blushing as he straightens his shirt and jacket and nods towards the door to the non-smoking bar. “And there was me thinking you might be charming.”

“In that case, we’d better hurry up and get that beer, before I say anything else and you change your mind.”

Arthur follows Merlin, his heart pounding a staccato rhythm.

There’s a small table in the corner with two stools. Arthur snags it, sits and watches Merlin freely, unobstructed by wind-milling arms and splashing pool water, soaking up the angles and curves that make up his lean body and pretty face. It’s Merlin’s eyes that enthral Arthur the most, make him want to stare and stare, that and the warm paleness of his skin. He’s like early morning sunlight turned into something solid and tangible.

Merlin returns with wet hands and a quarter of an inch of beer missing from the tops of the pint glasses. Arthur chooses, for perhaps the first time in forever, not to make a scathing remark about Merlin’s inability to carry two drinks across a bar, spill-free. He can hardly believe it himself - Arthur Pendragon, feeling considerate of another person’s feelings. Danielle would be proud.

Arthur slips a cardboard coaster across the table. “So, I meant to say, I noticed you at the pool before yesterday. You’ve been the highlight of my Monday afternoon for months.”

“I’m there Wednesdays and Fridays as well.” Merlin shrugs a self-deprecating laugh. “And now I’m surprised you didn’t bolt for the door when you saw me coming up to you. I might look passable in jeans and a shirt, but in Speedos … yeah, not so good.”

“I don’t know about that. And your hair. I like it.” Arthur reaches for Merlin’s long, wavy fringe, freezes mid-air as he realises the gesture is altogether too intimate and pulls his hand back.

If Merlin notices he doesn’t say anything, though he touches his fingers to a strand that’s strayed and caught on his eyelashes, perhaps nervously. “Thanks.” He takes a sip of his beer. “So what’s on the agenda now? Are you going to be supporting Stonewall and writing letters to all the MP’s who didn’t vote for sixteen?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m due some ‘me’ time. It’s my final year, too. I suppose I need to knuckle down and get my degree so I can sell out like the rest of the yuppies after I graduate.”

“And what does Arthur do for ‘me time’ fun?”

“The usual - go out to the pub with my friends, or sometimes we get together and watch a film or play board games.” Arthur cringes the second he says it. It’s too late to explain how much fun Trivial Pursuit with Gwaine can be, or Scrabble for that matter.

Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up his face. “Very _grown-up._ Ever sung karaoke?”

“ _No._ Oh my god, don’t tell me …”

“Every Sunday, almost. It’s become a bit of a tradition. My friend Gwen and I go to The Hacker’s Arms. Sometimes her friend Lizzie comes, too, but she’s wary of lesbians chatting her up. She says she has no trouble turning down a man, but she can’t say no to a woman.” Merlin doesn’t pause for breath. “Gwen thinks she might have latent lesbian tendencies. I don’t know though, because you’d think she would like the attention even if she was too scared to follow through. When I told Gwen that, she told me I was more in touch with my feminine side than she is.”

“Are you any good?” Arthur edges in quick.

“With the karaoke?” Merlin snorts. “Why don’t you come with us Sunday and see? You don’t have to sing, you can just watch me make a fool of myself.”

Arthur shakes his head, because part of him thinks this is a terrible idea; there’s no such thing as non-participation at these places. Only, Merlin is sort of asking him out and he might not get another chance if he declines.

Then it comes to him.

“Alright, karaoke it is on Sunday, but only if you let me buy you dinner on Friday night.”

Merlin’s face erupts into a smile that explodes from his eyes. “That sounds to me like a win-win situation.”

“What do you like to eat?”

“Anything. You’re not one of those muesli-munchers, like the rest of the LGSoc?”

“You mean a vegetarian?” Arthur sniggers. “No, there’s bacon in my fridge. Only I tend not to brag about it.”

“Yeah, some of those vegetarians can get a bit emotional if they think odour of dead pig has wafted over their tofu.”

“Merlin!” Arthur throws his head back laughing and has to catch his breath before he can suggest a restaurant. “I know a fantastic tapas bar I could take you to.”

“Okay. Tapas it is.”

The talk comes fast and easy and when the bell for last orders sounds Arthur accidentally lets out a groan. “Do you want another?”

“No, I should get going.”

“Do you need a lift?”

“No thanks, I’m on campus.”

“Then I’ll walk you to your room.” Merlin stiffens at the suggestion, which makes Arthur take pause. He supposes it might sound a bit creepy. “Only so I know where to pick you up Friday.”

“Um ... okay. Sure.”

“If you want, you can go back and tell your friends that you’re with me.”

“No. No need. Sorry. It’s just ...”

“Don’t apologise. I get it. Believe me, the women I hang around with lecture me constantly about safety.”

“Oh no. It’s not that.” Merlin looks embarrassed. “I don’t usually have anyone back. You sort of took me by surprise.”

Arthur can’t help feeling elated by this knowledge, as if he already has some kind of claim on Merlin. Apparently, he has a bigger crush than he realised.

They walk side by side, strolling comfortably through the crisp night air. Their breath blows in smoke-like wisps around their faces like dragon-breath, and Merlin hunches into the chill and shivers. His cheeks are already turning a shade darker, even in the grey light of night-time. Arthur resists the temptation to put his arm around him. Even if he knew him better, it’s a luxury a gay man can’t afford to enjoy in public, no matter how liberal the setting. It never leaves him - the feeling of bitterness that he’s denied what straight men, men with girlfriends, take for granted.

They reach J-block a couple of minutes later, go in through the double doors at the end and walk a short stretch along the corridor to a ground floor room.

“This is me. J-127.”

“Jammy sod. How did you get one so close?”

“Lucky, I suppose.”

Merlin reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a key on a leather cord around his neck.

Arthur’s tempted to make a smart remark, like _are you sure you’re nineteen_? But Merlin’s already opening the door, switching on the light and pulling Arthur inside. “Come in then. I saw you’ve got a mobile, right?”

“Yes. I’ll write down the number for you.”

“And you live off campus?”

“Yes.”

Arthur moves a few paces further into the room while Merlin hangs up his coat, on a hanger, and puts it in the wardrobe.

“Do you have a room in a house?”

“No. I’ve got my own place.”

“You really are a yuppie in training.”

Arthur shrugs. He’s not proud, though nor is he entirely resigned to selling out to corporate Albion, but he knows how it looks to people who don’t know him well. “I’ll write down my address and phone number there, too. Only, don’t give it to anyone else, will you?”

“Not likely, I got here first.”

“No, seriously. I like my privacy.”

“You can trust me.” When Arthur turns and looks into those wide blue eyes, gazing at him sincerely, intently, he believes he can. He steps in and kisses Merlin softly on the lips.

Merlin gasps and the sound is utterly wonderful - a little surprised noise in the back of his throat and a gentle hum.

When Arthur pulls back, Merlin looks funny, dumbstruck. He runs his finger over his bottom lip, as if he doesn’t quite believe what just happened.

It’s only a side-step to the desk, the extremely tidy desk topped by an extremely tidy bookshelf. All of Merlin’s cassettes are arranged in alphabetical order and on the wall there are written-on post-its in neat rows, and a large, filled-in yearly planner.

Arthur pulls a fresh yellow post-it from next to a cup filled with pens and pencils and writes down his details. “I see you’re a neat freak.”

“Actually, not really, but if I don’t organise myself I’d never get anywhere on time. Really, this is the result of being unnaturally disorganised.”

“I like it.”

“You don’t think it’s weird? I was a bit worried about what you’d think.”

“Let’s put it this way. I hate a mess.”

Merlin brushes his fingers over the post-it then over Arthur’s fingers, still splayed on the desk, and leans in to kiss his cheek. It’s ridiculously chaste yet Arthur’s heart skips a beat.

“I don’t have a phone, but you can leave me a message with the porter if you need to. What’s your subject, by the way?”

“Business. What about you?”

“English and Film.”

“You’re going to get a degree in Film Studies? Figures. Does that mean when you go to the cinema you talk all the way through or take notes or something?”

“No. Never. And if I was with you I’d probably have my tongue in your ear. You could tell me what I’m missing, while you pretend to be watching.”

“I’ll to hold you to that. Now, before I change my mind about leaving, I’m going to bid you good night.”

He kisses Merlin again, a fleeting brush of lips on lips that’s over too soon.

Arthur bounds to his car but slumps on the bonnet when he gets there. Three days suddenly seems like an awfully long time.

 

 _Friday, February 24, 1994_

Merlin chitchats like an excited child all the way to the restaurant and doesn’t seem to notice, let alone mind, that Arthur prefers not to talk while he’s driving. By the time they park, Arthur thinks he’s heard the name and life story of every person from Merlin’s village, Ealdor.

The High Street’s nothing special but half way up between a couple of blackened shop-fronts is the best tapas bar Arthur’s ever been to, in Albion at least.

They’re seated by the window, handed menus and a wine list. Arthur loves this place and not only for the food and wine. The crisp white linen, the floor tiled in chessboard marble and the guitar music, low and lilting – it’s an experience more than a meal.

“You’re really posh, aren’t you?” Merlin runs his finger over the bread knife. His hands are lovely, elegant.

“What do you mean?”

“The way you talk, dress. You have a nice car and you eat in expensive restaurants.”

He’s right and it’s not a criticism, though it always feels like one.

“You really need to get out more.”

“I get out plenty, just nowhere like this.” Merlin touches everything - his fingers lightly brushing over the table furnishings as if he really hasn’t been anywhere like this before. Maybe he hasn’t. He adds, “I bet you live somewhere _really_ fancy.”

“I think you’ll find I absolutely do not. You can come back home with me after dinner and I’ll show you, if you like.”

Merlin sniggers and bangs his leg into Arthur’s under the table.

“What? Did that just sound like a really cheesy invitation to take you home and have my wicked way with you?”

“I hope so. My friend, Gwen, warned me to wear decent underwear, just in case.”

“And I haven’t even plied you with wine yet.” Arthur hasn’t had a sniff of alcohol and he already feels a bit drunk, giddy, like he’s standing with his feet hanging off the edge of a kerb. He’d like to hold Merlin’s hand, to feel it curling into his. He daren’t even try it – not here – in public.

“I don’t really like wine. Could I have a beer?”

“Of course. I’ll just order myself a glass. Pick whatever you want.”

“I already did.” His voice is soft, uncertain.

Under the cover of the tablecloth, Arthur moves his legs either side of Merlin’s and firmly squeezes them together. When Merlin looks at him and visibly swallows Arthur can’t help himself – he grins like a lunatic.

Merlin grins back and winks before poring over his menu.

“Will you choose?” he says after a few minutes.

“Sure. They’re meant for sharing; I’ll get a selection of things.”

The food eases the first-date awkwardness, the drinks smooth the conversation, and before long they can talk and look and pause without the prickle of self-consciousness lessening their ease. Half a glass of beer, and Merlin’s cheeks are blossom pink. He’s got a splash of tomato sauce on his chin, which Arthur doesn’t care to mention, and is happily spearing another piece of chorizo with his fork while he talks about some Belgian film he watched that week called _Man Bites Dog._

“Well, by this time he’s got the camera crew helping him dispose of his victims, but the water level in the quarry has started falling and all these dead bodies start poking out of the water.”

“It sounds horrific.”

“But it isn’t, which is the whole point – how far are viewers, and in this case the camera-crew, prepared to go for entertainment? It _should_ be horrific but the film’s a comedy and that bit’s actually hilarious.” Merlin rolls his eyes and says, “Weren’t you listening?”

 _This_ Arthur finds hilarious.

He watches and listens, sips his wine and picks at the remnants of food. It’s bliss, and if he could capture and bottle the feeling, it would contain Merlin’s laugh and the sparkle of his eyes in the candlelight.

~*~

Merlin accepts Arthur’s invitation back to his flat. During the drive he’s quiet, looking over now and again, making Arthur’s heart jump and stomach clench with each small smile and glance.

When Merlin slowly, deliberately climbs the stairs to the second floor, it’s as if he’s trying not to look drunk, or maybe like he’s having second thoughts. Arthur remembers clearly, Merlin only drank one beer.

“If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll take you home. No pressure.”

“No. I want to be here.”

Arthur leads the way in, pointing out the rooms, alternating to the left and right, as they walk to the kitchen at the end of the hall. “Spare room, my room, bathroom, living room and the kitchen. Can I get you a drink?”

“Just water.”

Merlin gets a few sips before Arthur pushes him back against the kitchen table, holds his jaw and kisses him. It’s unhurried and sweet-savouring. Merlin opens his mouth, let’s Arthur’s tongue in, responds with his own soft-mouthed caresses. The kissing lasts and lasts, breathy and intoxicating, as Arthur sucks against Merlin’s lips and jaw. Merlin tilts his head back and yields, like long grass in the wind, to every touch upon his skin, letting Arthur lead.

It’s unexpected then, that after a long time doing no more than kissing Merlin is the one who grabs a hold of Arthur’s hips, pulls him closer and rasps, “Could we do this lying down?”

“Bed or sofa?”

“Bed.” Merlin says without pause, and it’s only as Arthur takes him by the hand and half bites, half kisses below his jaw that Merlin falters. “I don’t usually ... I don’t want you to think ... I’m ...”

Arthur holds him close and whispers, “It’s all right. I don’t. We’ll do whatever you want, your choice. Nothing more.”

In the bedroom, with the lamplight less harsh than the fluorescent strip in the kitchen, it ironically feels more real, that they’re here together: that, and the fact there’s a bed. It slams into Arthur like a blow to the chest that Merlin might possibly never have done anything like this before. He watches Merlin turn a slow circle, looking at the whole room not just the bed, and at Arthur. Why Merlin would want to move things along this quickly, Arthur’s not sure: he’s horny and not thinking straight and wants to feel Merlin’s skin. He’s sure, surer than he’s ever been, he could never wilfully hurt a hair on Merlin’s head.

Arthur whispers as he lays Merlin down, “Are you okay? You’ll tell me if you want me to stop.”

Merlin replies, “Yes. I’m fine. Just ... you can keep going, yeah? ‘S’all good.”

Even when Arthur’s kissed and caressed between removing every last piece of their clothing and paused to look, to stroke his fingers the length of Merlin’s cock, wet at the tip, Merlin only breathes heavier.

Merlin’s eyes don’t fall from Arthur’s gaze, and Arthur holds Merlin there, tells him with soft words and tiny nods, open-mouthed kisses and the warm press of his body, that he only wants to make him feel good. Merlin takes it all without hesitation, and returns in kind, following Arthur’s lead, until Arthur is lying between Merlin’s open thighs, the hot-solid press of their damp erections rubbing against his stomach.

Arthur rolls his hips, lazy-slow at first, the low friction a gradually building pleasure, peaking and receding again with the sporadic pinch of Merlin’s fingers teasing over his tightened nipples. It’s obvious how much Arthur likes it, and that Merlin does too, from the way he bucks and moans with the nip of Arthur’s teeth over the dark nubs.

Merlin shivers and skates his fingers over Arthur’s back, over his buttocks and downwards to his thighs. “Do you want to ... you know?”

“Not this time. Let’s wait, okay?”

Merlin nods. “I haven’t ...”

“I thought so.” Arthur sighs into his kiss, lifts up onto his elbows and says, “I’m too close anyway. If you touch me now that’s going to be it.”

Merlin’s smile is almost enough to send him over. When Merlin licks his palm, Arthur lifts his hips to let him slide his hand between them. Arthur fucks through Merlin’s tight fist, feels the pressure building in his balls, and groans out loud as he comes. He’s shuddering through the last pulses of his climax as Merlin swipes his thumb through the semen spread around the head of his cock, lets Arthur go and fists himself. He doesn’t last either, coming with his head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, gasping out every exhale.

Arthur wipes them clean with tissues from the bedside table, pulls back the duvet on his side of the bed and says, “Get in, before you freeze.”

Merlin looks heavy-limbed, worn out as he manoeuvres; he settles immediately and says, “I’m really tired.”

“Sleep then.”

Merlin curls onto his side, tucking his hands prayer-like under the pillow. His face and chest are still hotly sex-flushed, though his eyelids already look sleep-heavy. “Thanks, for tonight.”

“Thanks yourself. I had the best time.”

“So did I.” Merlin slides one of his hands across the mattress, settles it on Arthur’s shoulder, closes his eyes and is asleep almost instantly.

Arthur waits to turn out the light a while longer, watching Merlin’s face fall slack, shedding years with every breath, each deeper and slower than the last.

Arthur never thought falling in love would be like this, like jumping through a sprinkler on a summer day. It’s burning and shivering, laughing and screaming too loud, and not being able to close your eyes at bedtime.

And falling in love he is - of that he has no doubt.

 

 _Wednesday, March 15, 1994_

Over the next three weeks Arthur sees more and more of Merlin. He sings karaoke, much to the amusement of Leon, Lance and Gwaine, who come tagging along to join in the fun and ridicule Arthur’s inability to hold a tune. Gwaine fancies himself a crooner, Lancelot fancies Gwen and some friend of Merlin’s called Percy fancies Leon. Everyone comes away with a story to tell.

Between the LGSoc, sport, essays, assignments and revision, Arthur might be busy but he always has time for Merlin.

They duck into Merlin’s room at lunchtime and get crumbs in the bed, they kiss in the private study rooms in the library and half the nights in the week they end up at Arthur’s flat, where Arthur cooks and Merlin washes up and Arthur wishes he could find the guts to ask him to be here with him all the time.

Merlin always falls asleep first at night, curled like a kitten. He’s terrible in the mornings, uncoordinated and grouchy, and would forget his head if it wasn’t screwed on. He’s clever and witty and he makes Arthur laugh until his sides hurt and his eyes stream, and sometimes when Arthur looks at him he has to physically remind himself to breathe.

It’s the week before the spring term exams and they’re all on edge. Not only that, the LGSoc is holding a fundraiser, which means more work for Arthur. Merlin seems busy enough, too, preparing for exams of his own, and doesn’t push it when Arthur has to forego time with him for his other commitments. Still, he’d rather be with Merlin than helping to print out flyers and fill up the Engineering Block pigeon-holes with invitations that everyone there is going to chuck straight in the bin.

“Arthur.” Merlin pokes his head around the door of the office he shares with the four other members of the LGSoc Committee.

“Hey. Good swim?”

“Same as usual.”

“What about your racing score?”

“I’ve got the first two places.”

Merlin is something of a creature of habit, too.

He comes around to Arthur’s side of the desk and leans in. “What are you doing?”

“Paperwork.”

Arthur pushes his chair back and pulls Merlin sideways onto his lap. Merlin’s arms wrap around Arthur’s neck and as he nuzzles in for a kiss Arthur can still faintly smell chlorine beneath the shampoo. He sneaks his fingers under Merlin’s jumper and squeezes the warm, soft skin on his side. Merlin squirms. He is so ticklish it’s not funny, it’s hilarious, and too much of a temptation not to take full advantage at every opportunity.

Merlin tugs on Arthur’s hair. “Are you playing squash after?”

“No. I’m due to play Lance, so we’ve rescheduled to tomorrow morning, whether we’re hung over or not.”

“Oh. ... Are you going somewhere tonight?”

“You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? Give me that little black book of yours.”

“No.” Merlin tries to wriggle away, laughing, as Arthur digs his fingers in again and holds tighter. “There’s nothing in it for tonight. Except ... Arthur _stop._ Please.”

“It’s Leon’s twenty-first. We’re going to The Gloucester tonight for drinks and dancing, then on Saturday is the formal party thing – black tie at The Fox and Hound. His parents are coming up for that.”

Merlin shifts, pulls the slim diary out from his back pocket and flips it open. “See. Nothing. If you’d told me I’d have written it in.”

“I did tell you. I don’t remember exactly when, but,” Arthur snatches the diary and flicks through a few pages, “with a diary as empty as yours I don’t see why you can’t just remember it. Oh, and what’s this tomorrow? Meeting at nine with Anna? Gone straight on me, have you?”

“No.” Merlin feigns a pained expression. “She’s my advisor. We have to discuss ... um, exams - next week’s exams.”

“Why? Who the hell does that? Is that some new thing they’ve brought in to spoon-feed the Freshers even more than they already do?”

“No. It’ll be a ten minute meeting to make sure I don’t have any concerns or questions. She likes to make sure her students are doing okay, that’s all. I must bring out her maternal instincts.”

“Yeah, that’s you. A. Big. Baby.” Arthur punctuates each word with a dig of his fingers into Merlin’s ticklish ribs.

“Ha ha. You won’t be saying that when my dick’s in your mouth later.”

Arthur looks at the pile of flyers on the desk. “Got time to help me deliver these, then I’ll cook you dinner? We’ll have a couple of hours for you to show me how manly you are and still be at the pub by eight.”

“I should really try to get some reading done tonight. Perhaps I could meet you later?”

 _“Merlin.”_ When he wants something Arthur isn’t above whining or puppy-dog eyes. And he doesn’t like being thwarted, especially not for the sake of a couple of exams that will hardly count towards Merlin’s final results. He even pouts.

“All right. But I’m not going dancing. I don’t dance. And I want to be back in my room and in bed by eleven.”

Arthur pulls a silly grinning face that sends Merlin into a fit of giggles. Arthur is vindicated. The fact Merlin needs next to no persuading only proves he can afford a night off.

~*~

Of course, it’s a rush. Arthur has to wonder if Merlin was more of a hindrance than a help with the flyer delivery, but he tries not to huff and puff too much. They manage to squeeze everything in, though ‘squeeze’ isn’t the exact word Arthur would use to describe what they got up to between dinner and going to the pub. In the end they have to splash out on a taxi as they’re running late and Arthur plans to make the most of the Student Night vodka shots.

By ten o’clock, Arthur’s suitably warm and fuzzy on the inside. Leon is more than usually amenable to his sloppy kisses, probably because he’s all loved-up since he started seeing a blonde woman called Elena. She’s the captain of the hockey team and she could fight Arthur off Leon with one arm tied behind her back if she wanted to. Instead, she pulls Merlin onto her lap and pretends to get off with him. Poor Merlin - Arthur hopes he isn’t traumatised by girl-tongue in his mouth.

Arthur isn’t sure what time he and his mates start dancing, but dance they do (except Lance who’s half laid out on the booth bench with a leg over Gwen). Gwaine still thinks it’s the eighties and keeps asking the deejay for “Ride On Time”, though it doesn’t really matter what they’re playing because he dances to everything like John Travolta. Arthur sheds his jacket, pumps his arms and boogies on down, deliberately bumping his hips into Leon, who takes up far too little space when he dances for a man of his size.

Merlin is sitting on the sidelines nursing the same beer he’s had for the last two rounds and can’t be coaxed to put a foot on the dance-floor, despite it being crowded enough no one is going to notice him in particular. When Gwaine finally gets his own way and “Blue Monday” comes on everyone else gets up.

Arthur thinks himself very good at persuading and tries pulling Merlin up, too. “Come on, one dance.”

“No.” Merlin stands, puts his hands on Arthur’s shoulders and shouts into his ear, “Listen, I should get going. You stay and have fun and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 _“No, no, no, no, no._ It’s one night, one dance. I’ll hold onto you.”

“Arthur, it’s really not a good idea. You’re too drunk and I’m too rubbish. Go dance with Gwaine, before he takes someone’s eye out with his hair.”

Merlin pushes him away with a slap on his backside. The song will be over if Arthur hangs around much longer so he downs the rest of his glass and heads back out into the throng.

After that, it’s a bit of a blur.

The slamming starts as Nirvana dominates the sound. Through the haze of alcohol, sweaty bumping bodies and throbbing noise, Arthur vaguely thinks he should go see what Merlin’s up to and whether he wants to head to the toilets for a quick snog, but every time he tries to leave someone pulls him back. By the time he finally extracts himself, goes for a much-needed piss and heads back to their seats, it’s already one o’clock.

Arthur stumbles up to Elena and Gwen, who are talking mouth to ear, huddled together on a pile of coats in the booth.

“Have you seen Merlin?”

“What?” Gwen cups her hand to her ear.

 _“Merlin.”_

“He left about an hour ago. Elena and I saw him into a taxi. He said he’d see you tomorrow.”

Suddenly Arthur feels a bit sick. He has a bad feeling as he thinks over the evening and considers Merlin might not have been having a very good time. He wants to see him. This late, though, J-block will be locked. The best he can do is head home and bring him breakfast in the morning. “I’m going. Gwen, tell Lance I’ll see him at half ten at the squash courts.”

Outside it’s raining. Not hard, more drizzle than rain; fine mist-like precipitation that seeps in fast around Arthur’s collar and freezes on contact. He decides on a taxi home. Lucky for him, getting out early means there are a line of them waiting and he’s in the dry and warm in no time.

The street light outside Arthur’s flat’s on the blink, but the one on the other side of the street emits enough light that he can see someone sitting on his front steps as the taxi pulls up. He hands over a ten pound note and doesn’t wait for change as he realises immediately who it is.

“Merlin. What are you doing here?”

He’s drenched, shivering on the top step, looking thoroughly miserable. The whites of his eyes are blurred.

“I left my key here. I got back too late for the porter’s office and Gwen is still at the club. I thought you’d be back sooner.”

Instantly, Arthur feels a lot more sober.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.”

“I left a bag in your car, with a change of clothes in it. I was going to leave it in your flat for emergencies. I think this counts.” He smiles weakly, through chattering teeth.

“I’ll have to run up and get my car keys. You can go get your bag while I run you a hot bath. I’ll leave the door on the latch. Don’t forget to unlatch it on your way back in.”

Arthur runs the bath for Merlin. Still, he can’t help deliberating the steaming water while waiting for Merlin to come back up the stairs. It’s not a bad idea to wash off the smell of smoke and sweat before climbing between the sheets and though it’s not big, Arthur figures the bath’s big enough they can share.

It turns out to be a very good idea, as Merlin’s shivering out of his clothes with brittle fingers and looks likes he needs more than hot water to warm him up. He looks wrecked but happy, grinning at Arthur as he slots in front of him.

He turns his head for a wet kiss and says, “I’ve never seen you this drunk. You’re going to pay for it tomorrow.”

“Nope. I have a cast-iron consi-shoochun.”

“That would be _constitution_.”

“That’s what I said.”

The room is spinning and Merlin’s shuddering with laughter, his back is goose-bumped and blotchy pink and Arthur wants to bite at the muscle on Merlin’s shoulder. He’s having none of it, though, and hastily sluices water and soap over himself before slipping free of Arthur’s grappling hands and tumbling out of the tub. Arthur sinks down and rinses off his hair. When he gets out he’s vaguely aware the floor is soaked but can’t care when he wants to sleep, all thoughts of a drunken grope gone out of his head.

By the time Arthur downs a pint of water and staggers to the bedroom, Merlin is already crashed out.

 

 _Thursday, March 16, 1994_

Arthur’s alarm sounds at seven. Merlin sleeps through it. Arthur gives him another half an hour, since he looks snug and deliciously ruddy across the tops of his cheeks and it feels like a cruelty to wake him.

“Hate to rush you but it’s already half seven. I made you strawberry Nesquik.”

Merlin cracks open his eyes, grunts and looks at Arthur askance, the blue visible through the thick frame of his dark lashes. He’s not as entirely miserable as Arthur expected him to be and he hopes when he drags him out from beneath the bedclothes the sugar fix will be enough to take the unpalatable edge off of Merlin’s usually sweet temperament.

Arthur’s feeling of self-satisfaction, that he finally has Merlin sussed and is able to get him out to the car with fifteen minutes to spare, is abruptly superseded by a gut-rolling wave of sick panic.

His driver’s side door is open, just an inch, but definitely open.

Arthur’s heart skips a beat, then another as he swings open the door and sees his car stereo is missing.

 _“Shit.”_

Arthur quickly leans in and pulls open the glove box. It’s a short-lived glimmer of relief to find all the documents are there - his Ray-Bans are not. All the CDs from underneath the passenger seat have been taken, too.

Merlin is standing frozen on the kerb. He doesn’t get in the car until Arthur gets out and kicks his front tyre in rage.

There’s nothing to quell his frustration and anger, except that _Merlin_ has to meet with his advisor and Arthur is the one who has to get him to college on time without crashing the car or running someone over on the way. He sits down in the driver’s seat, scrubs his face and looks over at Merlin, sitting with his rucksack held defensively on his lap.

“Please tell me you locked the car last night.”

“Yes, I did.”

Arthur opens his door again and gets out, walks around the outside, opens Merlin’s door and checks for scratches, dents, any sign of forced entry. Next, he walks back and does the same to his own door. A few deep breaths and Arthur’s willing himself to talk to Merlin with a civil tongue, or at least without shouting insults. He gets in and carefully refrains from slamming his door.

“Are you sure you locked this car? Because there isn’t a mark on it and as you can see, someone managed to get in and take the stereo, the CDs and my Ray-Bans.”

“I thought I did. I mean ... I was sure.” Merlin looks devastated as he says into his lap in a small voice, “I’m so sorry.”

“For fuck’s sake, Merlin. This is East Camelot, not fucking Ealdor. All you had to do was press the button on the key. The kids round here will take the coat off your back if it’s not buttoned up.”

“I’ll give you the money to replace them.”

Arthur doesn’t know what he was expecting Merlin to say. There probably isn’t anything that could appease him. He looks over and Merlin’s face is bright red, the tendon in his jaw quivering with an agitated rhythm. He’s clearly upset, but Arthur is spitting mad and a clenched fist away from punching something.

“What the fuck is it with you? You’re like a six-year-old. Honestly, you can’t remember anything without writing it down in that stupid book, even though as far as I can tell you don’t actually _do_ anything except your college work. You have to be in bed by ten or you’re even more useless than usual and ... and ...”

“... and _what?”_ Merlin’s face crumples, his voice trembling and high. “I can’t walk in a straight line, I can’t remember my right from my left, and when I’m tired it’s worse. Then I can’t do up buttons or write and I’ll never have it together enough to be able to drive. I know. I _know_.”

Merlin curls away towards the window and covers his face with his hands.

Arthur’s chest pulls in tight and he can hardly breathe. “Merlin.” He reaches across to pull him back.

“Don’t touch me.” Merlin’s hands fall. He stays turned away. “I have to see my advisor in half an hour. Can we just leave?”

Arthur knows he should do something, say something.

All he can do is start the car and drive.

Merlin looks out of the window all the way to college. The silence is deafening.

They arrive with time to spare but Merlin leaps from his seat the moment they stop. Arthur gets out faster, catches him at the passenger side and grabs him by his upper arms. “What’s going on?”

Merlin can’t look him in the eye as he says sheepishly, “I have to go. Can we talk, later?”

“After my squash game?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be in my room.”

Merlin flicks up a glance and forces a smile, and Arthur’s heart fractures as he watches him turn and stumble, right himself against the next parked car and walk off towards the English Block. Arthur should have at least given him a hug. It’s too late now.

~*~

Of all the arguments Arthur’s had with his father over the years, he’s never come away feeling like this: like someone has made him swallow a gutful of lead. He spends an hour in the library photocopying pages from periodicals and purposefully avoiding anyone he knows.

Ten thirty comes around too fast.

Lance is in shorts and a t-shirt, spinning the top of his racquet on the tiled floor in the changing rooms when Arthur gets there. He looks up slowly and pushes his hair back from his face. “You look like shit, man.”

“You’re not exactly looking your usual pretty self either. Gwen keep you up?”

“Yeah. Throwing up half the night after a dodgy kebab. I tied her hair back and put the washing-up bowl by the side of the bed before I left this morning.”

Arthur almost laughs. “Such a gentleman. Come on then. Let’s get this over with.”

They’re well-matched enough that typically they have to play all five games. This time, Arthur loses the first three games straight and is relieved to call it a day. He showers quickly. Lance is still getting dry by the time he’s ready to leave and find Merlin.

“I’m sorry – I was crap. Probably would have been better for both of us if I’d just defaulted.”

“Arthur, what’s up? It’s like you weren’t even in the court with me.”

“Merlin.” Arthur flops down on the bench.

“Don’t tell me you two had a fight.”

“Not exactly. It’s not that, anyway.” Arthur pauses, not quite sure how to say what he wants to say. He settles for the direct approach since, according to everyone, subtlety is completely lost on him. “Do you think there’s something wrong with him?”

“Merlin? _No._ He’s like this ... no, Arthur, he’s a star catch. Why would you say that?” Lance buttons up his 501’s and runs his fingers through his wet hair.

“I don’t mean like that. I mean, do you think he’s got something, like a disease? It’s just that he’s always tired ... and he’s forgetful and sometimes I think he can’t coordinate himself properly. He falls over, for goodness sakes, just walking.”

Lance gives Arthur a look. One that says he knows something and it’s bad and he isn’t going to be the one to say it. “You need to talk to him.”

Lance doesn’t have that emotional constipation that most men have. He doesn’t get twitchy talking about relationships or feelings. Arthur depends on him for his honesty, for getting to the heart of the matter when he’s being a prat. His reticence is worrying.

“Has Gwen told you something? She has, hasn’t she?”

Arthur can’t stop the panic twisting, strangling him.

“Arthur, just go and talk to him.”

~*~

Arthur stops by the cafeteria and picks up two sandwiches. He jogs to J-block, feeling sicker with every step.

When he gets to Merlin’s door, it’s slightly ajar.

Arthur knocks anyway and pushes it all the way open. Merlin’s lying on the bed, flat on his back, one forearm over his eyes.

“Merlin?” Arthur closes the door, drops his bag and moves to sit beside him on the bed. It’s been a few days since Arthur was in here last and he can’t help noticing the room is uncharacteristically unkempt. There’s a bag of dirty laundry by the desk, a mess of jeans and t-shirts spilling out of the top, and on the desk a stack of papers, with files and post-its scattered on top of those. Merlin’s coat is in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Merlin’s voice is broken. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in me this long.”

“What? Why would you say that?” Arthur pushes Merlin’s arm from his face and leans over him. He’s been crying.

“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

Arthur can’t bear to see him like this. Without a second thought, though Merlin struggles and resists, Arthur scoops him into his arms. Merlin keeps trying to wiggle free, his breath coming in fought-for gasps, his knees folding up and catching Arthur in the ribs.

“Stop. Don’t shut me out.” Arthur only releases his hold enough that he can look at Merlin’s face. “What didn’t you tell me?”

Merlin looks confused, like he’s trying to speak but the words won’t come out.

“Come on, talk to me.” Arthur kisses Merlin’s face, rubs his splayed fingers in circles over his back, hoping it will soothe him enough to allow him to get the words out.

Merlin needs a few minutes. His legs drop down and his body slumps against Arthur’s, his head on his shoulder.

“When I asked you out, I didn’t think in a million years you’d say yes. After that, I thought the chances were, I was only infatuated and I wouldn’t be too bothered if I only got to have one night with you.” Merlin’s fingers clasp and fist the front of Arthur’s denim jacket. “But you were perfect, right from that first drink we had, and after the night we went for tapas, when you didn’t try to have sex with me, when you said you wanted to wait ... I realised you wanted to see me again and I knew I wanted to see you again and then ... the longer it went on the harder it got to tell you ...”

“Tell me _what_?”

“It’s too much. I can’t do it. I’ve messed everything up. Just like I always do.”

“Shhh. You haven’t messed anything up - except your hair - but that can be fixed.”

“No. You don’t understand. Everything you said about me in the car this morning, it’s true, and I’m never going to be any better, no matter how hard I try.” Merlin draws in a deep, quivery breath. “I have dyspraxia.”

Arthur’s grip on Merlin loosens as he braces himself, uncertain whether this is something that’s going to leave him grief-stricken. “You’ll have to explain. I’ve heard of it, but I don’t know what it is.”

“It’s a type of learning disability. I was born with it. I don’t have a severe case, despite what you might think, but living with it is exhausting. It takes everything I have to get through the day. I have to concentrate on the things you do automatically, like getting dressed, remembering directions, writing, anything that requires any sort of coordination. My brain doesn’t always send out the right signals to my body, especially if I’m tired or trying something new.”

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut as everything falls, crashes into place; it explains Merlin’s regimental routine, the swimming, the computer games, the black book and the unlocked car. Merlin sits up and touches Arthur’s eyelids and his breath is close, so close his lips must almost be on Arthur’s skin.

“Arthur.”

“I wish you’d told me before. Right from the beginning.”

Merlin puts his fingers gently to Arthur’s lips. “I called my mum. She’s going to send you a cheque for the car stereo and stuff.”

Arthur opens his eyes and sees Merlin, trying and failing to look brave. “No. Merlin –”

“Please, let me finish. I don’t want you to feel guilty, or think that you owe me an explanation. I’m hard work, I know that, and you’ve got finals coming up and then you’ll be graduating and moving on. I’m sorry that I let things go this far, that I lied to you. I just wanted to be like everyone else, to have someone, to have you. But I wasn’t being fair on you and it’s okay, it’s okay for you to go. You deserve better.”

“No. _No_ , you are _not_ breaking up with me. That’s supposed to make life easier for me? To be without you? You selfish idiot. You think I get nothing out of this relationship? You’re worried that you’re some kind of burden, that you cramp my style? You have no fucking idea, do you? It’s been what, three, four weeks and already I can’t imagine living without you. I didn’t want to scare you off, I didn’t want to pressure you ... Merlin, I care about you so much ... I love you.”

Arthur’s throat is thick and tight and he can hardly swallow, and he doesn’t know whether he wants to shake some sense into Merlin or curl him into his arms and keep him there. Everything that’s good in Arthur’s life includes Merlin and he’s not about to lose him without a fight, and that’s a revelation in itself.

Taking Merlin’s face in his hands, forcing him to look at him, Arthur insists, “I won’t let you go. I won’t. Not unless you tell me you don’t love me.”

At this, Merlin wilts. “You know I can’t do that. It wouldn’t be true.”

~*~

Once Arthur gets his honest feelings off his chest and no longer worries that Merlin has a brain tumour, or some other equally terrifying and terminal illness, everything else seems easy.

As they eat lunch, Arthur surveys Merlin’s room again and deliberates his strategy. Assessing a situation, formulating and executing plans, taking pre-emptive and remedial action – these are the things Arthur does best.

Merlin’s lying on the bed and looks like he’s ready to fall asleep. If it’s been a difficult morning for Arthur, it’s been nothing short of a major trauma for Merlin. Arthur doesn’t want to wait to ask him, though. He doesn’t see the point now they’ve both thrown their cards on the table. Still, it’s with some uncertainty Arthur shows the last of his hand. He pushes Merlin’s hair back from his face, kisses his forehead. “I want you to come and stay at my place. Just until the end of term. I mean, if you want to stay sort of permanently, I wouldn’t say no, but you know, just until the exams are over to start with. Then you can see how you feel.”

Merlin’s eyes are searching. He takes a few deep breaths.

“I don’t know. I want to, but it’s going to be hard enough for me next week with everything on my doorstep. I don’t think I can handle a move.”

“You won’t have to do anything. You should rest now - I’ve got a few things to wrap up on campus. Do you need anything from the library?”

“No. I got all the past papers I needed yesterday, and some extra notes from my advisor this morning. Oh, and, my exams ... I get extra time, which means some days I have to be here late, or early. She gave me my timetable today. It’s on the desk.”

Arthur can see Merlin’s struggling – his fingers loosen in Arthur’s hand and his eyes look like they’re out of focus. But before he leaves the room, Arthur hopes he’ll persuade Merlin to come home with him.

“My flat’s quieter than here and there’s room for you to have your own study space. You won’t have to worry about anything except getting through the week. I have to cook for myself, do my laundry; it’s no extra work to include you. I’ll make sure you get where you need to be on time. We can fill in your diary so that you know where you have to be and where I’ll be and we’ll go home together when we’re both done. You can sleep in all weekend, and go to bed as early as you need to.”

“I’d need to sort out my stuff here first.”

“Give me your key. I’ll come back in an hour and pack everything into my car, and we’ll get you organised together this evening.”

Merlin’s pause this time is brief. “All right.”

“Really?”

Arthur’s grin is big enough to break his face.

“Yes. Really.”

Merlin smiles back and in spite of looking raw and worn out, he’s as beautiful as always.

~*~

It only takes three trips to the car and all that’s left in Merlin’s room are a few winter clothes that Arthur can come back for another time. Spring is well and truly blooming and Arthur feels it, the newness in the air, as he strolls with Merlin to his car in the balm of afternoon sun.

When they park up outside the flat, Arthur sends Merlin to the corner shop at the end of the street with a shopping list for a packet of HobNobs, a couple of pints of milk and some washing powder. He doesn’t really need them but this way he can unload the car without Merlin feeling bad for not helping and it’ll give him a chance to start getting his bearings.

By the time Arthur’s locking up the car, the last box of books in his arms and a large rucksack full of clothes on his back, Merlin is ambling back up the street with a blue and white striped carrier bag, squinting into the sun, his shoulders back and a happy demeanour. Arthur’s chest swells to see him approaching, coming home to him, and he knows for sure he’s done the right thing.

“Cup of tea and a biscuit, then?” Merlin says. “I got chocolate ones.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Merlin holds the front door open and as Arthur heads upstairs he turns a sneaky look downwards to make sure he’s closed it after them.

The spare room is a job long overdue. Arthur never uses it and most of what’s languishing on the bookcase and in the old desk drawers are things he could throw away or shove in the top of the hallway cupboard. Armed with a couple of bin bags and a cardboard box, Arthur doesn’t waste a minute; his hands move fast, with purpose.

Merlin brings in refreshments.

“What are you doing?” He looks with alarm at the bin bag. “All your things?”

“Most of this stuff has been sitting in here untouched for the last two years, which shows you how often I come in here.” Arthur’s virtually bouncing off the floor with enthusiasm. “Look, I’ll put your planner up here, there’s room on the bookshelf for all your books and folders and the desk is big enough for your portable television. If you wanted to watch one of your films in here you could lie on the futon.”

“You don’t have to do all this.”

“I _want_ to.”

Merlin sits down on the futon. There’s a box at his feet, containing photographs and mementos Arthur’s never got around to doing anything with. Merlin reaches down and thumbs through some of the larger ones that Arthur’s slotted in on their sides.

“Is that you?” Merlin lifts out a picture frame and he doesn’t need to turn it in Arthur’s direction for him to know exactly the photograph Merlin is referring to. Whenever Arthur sees it he thinks of it as his ‘best of times and worst of times’.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Look at your hair.” Merlin scoffs and adds, “Were you arrested?”

“For my hair?”

“No,” Merlin shakes his head with mirth, “for standing on the top step to the entrance of Camelot Castle with a placard saying ‘Nineteen and Gay’.”

“No, I wasn’t arrested. But the picture made the _National_ , and some of the bigwigs at the Conservative Club my father belongs to saw it.”

“How did that go down?”

Arthur puts down the bin bag and leans against the desk. “Not as bad as it could have, all things considered. He frogmarched me out of halls, I got a humiliating lecture about the illegality of sodomy and was sequestered to this flat. He said he didn’t want a scandal. As long as I stayed below the radar, he would keep his nose out.”

“So that’s why you live here on your own?”

“Essentially.”

Arthur can remember it like it was yesterday. He hasn’t talked about that time with anyone, not even Leon, Lance or Gwaine. At the time, it was to protect himself as well as them; now it’s something Arthur has inadvertently buried. All the others, the guys Arthur ran with back then, left the year before and this year Arthur’s kept his head down. If he thinks too hard about it, he’d have to admit there are times it’s been pretty lonely.

Arthur doesn’t mean to sound sad when he says, “My father’s never once come here. I get secreted to West Camelot when he deigns it necessary to tolerate my company. And for keeping myself out of the limelight I get my rent paid.”

“You hardly keep yourself out of the limelight.”

“Student Union work doesn’t count – it’s expected that you flex your rebellious muscles there as long as you leave it all behind when you graduate. I can guarantee you half of those people that stand outside the Union selling Socialist Worker will be voting Tory and complaining about tax hikes within a year of graduating, just so they can pick up their trust funds.” Arthur sits down on the floor at Merlin’s feet and takes the picture from him. There are four other men in the photograph, each of them under twenty-one, each with their placards wielded like swords, held up high. “This particular rebellion was the culmination of a year’s involvement with Outrage.”

“You’re in Outrage?” Merlin leans forward and clasps Arthur’s shoulder. His shock isn’t a surprise. Of course he would know of the militant gay rights group.

“I _was._ I got recruited when I started here, during Freshers’ Week. You wouldn’t believe how proud I was, all puffed up and arrogant that they’d come to find me. It was only because I had connections and at that time they were outing Members of Parliament. My Dad didn’t know I was gay then, and I was old enough to go to his clubs in the city, mingle with his contemporaries. I didn’t do anything illegal - morally questionable maybe. I was _merely gathering Intel_.”

“Did you? Out anyone?”

“Without a doubt, I helped. I don’t feel quite so proud of it anymore.”

“But you were doing it for a cause. And the ends justified the means?”

“That’s what I told myself back then. But the truth is, I was just angry. I wasn’t really doing it for the cause, I was doing it to spite my father and for the thrill of the action. I got too cocky. Once he saw that picture he worked it all out.”

Arthur sighs and puts the picture back in the box, rests his head on Merlin’s knees and wraps his arms around his legs.

Merlin gently runs his fingertips through Arthur’s hair, his palm solid on Arthur’s neck. “And that’s when you got exiled to East Camelot. No chance of running into any old school chums here.”

“Something like that.”

“You’re not planning on throwing any of this away, are you?”

“No. I was going to stick it in the cupboard in the hall.”

“Once term ends, maybe over the summer, would you let me make you an album, a scrapbook? It’ll be good for me, writing out everything in sequence. You shouldn’t try to forget about what you did. It was important, and you did what you thought was right at the time.”

Arthur laces his fingers through Merlin’s and buries his face in his lap. It doesn’t hurt like it used to, when Merlin puts it like that. After a few deep breaths, he lifts his face and finds his anchor.

“Yes, of course - if it’ll keep you out of trouble.”

Merlin cups Arthur’s jaw in his hand, firm and strong. “In the meantime, that picture goes back on the wall.”

Arthur nods, knowing it would be pointless to refuse him.

 

 _Saturday June 4, 1994_

When Arthur opens the front door he can hear Merlin in the living room, shouting at the television. _Gladiators_ is on. He goes in to see Merlin on the edge of his seat, hands over his mouth, and on the television screen the blonde one, called Lightning, is hammering seven bells out of some poor woman half her size with a pugil stick.

Arthur sneaks up behind him, leans over the back of the sofa and captures Merlin’s shoulders. “Hi, darling, I’m home. Did you have a nice day, Arthur? Why, yes I did thank you, Merlin.”

“Shhh. Oh, look. I thought she was going to make it.” Merlin turns and bites Arthur’s nose, just to prove the point he wasn’t completely oblivious, which sort of takes Arthur by surprise even if it doesn’t hurt. Arthur only gets a second to consider Merlin might be picking up dirty tricks from this show as he’s wrestle-dragged over the sofa until they’re twisted around each other on the floor.

Arthur lets Merlin pin his shoulders, revelling in the sight of him ruffled and flushed and beaming.

Merlin says breathlessly, “I sent in an application, for you to go on _Gladiators_ next series.”

“You _did not_. I’d get pulverised.”

“No you wouldn’t. When we go to my mum’s this summer you can train in the back garden.”

Arthur is ninety-nine percent sure Merlin is teasing. The one percent that’s in doubt will have to wait until Arthur has a strategic advantage.

“Don’t you want to know what I bought?”

“Is it something for me?”

“It certainly is.”

Merlin releases him and clambers back to the sofa, leaning over the back to see the bags. Merlin got a first in his end of year exams, eclipsing Arthur’s upper second degree, which doesn’t bother Arthur in the slightest. This is Arthur’s congratulations gift – well, one of them.

Arthur hands him the bag and watches Merlin’s face light up. “A Sega CD. _Arthur_.”

“And, since you insist on turning me into a fighting machine, I bought _Mortal Kombat_.”

“You know I’m going to kill you, don’t you?”

“Not if I kill you first.”

 _Gladiators_ is forgotten as Merlin reverentially handles the box. He never asks for anything, and that makes it all the more joyous, to see him like a child on Christmas morning.

“I got you something else.”

“Arthur,” Merlin tuts. “You shouldn’t have. This is too much already.”

“Well, it’s not just for you. ...We’re going to see Take That and Lulu tonight, at the Astoria.” Merlin almost falls off the chair. That reaction was better than Arthur could have hoped for, even with Merlin’s condition. “All the gang are coming, Leon and Elena, Lance and Gwen and Gwaine.”

“But it’s G.A.Y. tonight.”

“So? We go to straight clubs. And Gwaine said he’d go gay for Robbie Williams.”

“As long as he doesn’t touch Gary Barlow. He’s mine.”

“Who does that leave me with?”

“Jason Orange? Mark Owen?”

Arthur has absolutely no clue which ones they are. This concert is for Merlin’s benefit, though he can’t wait to see the look on his father’s face when he tells him he saw Lulu singing in a gay club. He pulls Merlin up and says, “You’d better have a nap. It’ll be a late one.”

“Lie down with me?”

“You bet.”

~*~

Arthur worries about the noise, the bustle of the crowds and losing Merlin in amongst several thousand partiers. The Astoria is massive – the main dance floor is big enough, but then there’s the mezzanine floor that circles the edge. They all agree to a meeting place, upstairs overlooking the stage, near a bar that’s much less busy than the ones downstairs.

Merlin insists on being down in the thick of it when Take That come on. When Lulu joins them on the stage for “Relight My Fire” it’s literally like someone lit a fire under the dance-floor. There’s standing, swaying-room only and Arthur encircles Merlin’s waist because if he falls down here he’ll be trampled.

As the song finishes and the place is roaring with whistles and applause, Merlin turns in Arthur’s arms, puts his own around Arthur’s shoulders and shouts into his ear, “I love it. This is brilliant. I want to dance.”

Fate couldn’t have handed Arthur a better hand. The crowd erupts again as the intro begins and everyone in the building knows what’s coming.

The next song is Merlin’s favourite. Not least because Barry Manilow did it first and Merlin’s mum loves him.

Robbie Williams leaps to the front of the stage crooning, “Spirits move me, every time I’m near you –”

And everyone on the floor sings along.

Merlin lets go, spins around and lets it fly. He’s undoubtedly the worst dancer Arthur has ever seen, but when the chorus rings out, “Could it be magic?” Arthur thinks it probably is.

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to mention that though I’ve changed the locations, the political events in this story did actually take place in the UK on these dates in 1994. Also, at that time, what’s now referred to as LGBT, was LG. I hope using the acronym as it was used then doesn’t cause anyone offence.
> 
> Originally written as a gift for Nene at the Glomp_fest on [Livejournal](http://community.livejournal.com/glomp_fest/4809.html).


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